


Angel of Salvation

by myhamsterisademon



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Originally Posted on Tumblr, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 14:45:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: There was something ethereally alluring in Sybil Vane, Dorian thought. Something, some trait of character or physique – something that Dorian Gray could not define, could not describe; for every time he thought he had found the right word, the right nuance, every time the meaning of it seemed unsatisfactory and any attribute seemed wanting of passion and spirit, every concept seemed deficient.





	Angel of Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on Tumblr, for a Secret Santa thing. I wrote it December 23rd at midnight, when I literally had one whole month to complete it, because I'm a stupid procrastinator.  
> Enjoy, I guess?

_There was something ethereally alluring in Sybil Vane_ , Dorian thought. Something, some trait of character or physique – something that Dorian Gray could not define, could not describe; for every time he thought he had found the right word, the right nuance, every time the meaning of it seemed unsatisfactory and any attribute seemed wanting of passion and spirit, every concept seemed deficient. The essence of who, of  _what_  Sybil Vane was did not exist in the flawed language of human beings.

But the thought would not quit Dorian’s mind, would not leave him tranquil,  _would it drive him mad?_

It left one wondering whether this sensation, this attraction was merely a game of mind, a lure of imagination; or if Sybil truly had the physical and mental capacity of enticing – of captivating the thoughts and the eye.

But perhaps, was it the way the dim light moved and shone and gleamed gracefully on her skin, creating patterns and dancing figures, hypnotic and mesmerising?

Her body glimmered and glittered under the sun and she looked unreal, transparent; she looked surreal. She did not seem part of this world; she seemed too fragile – too innocent to bear all the horror and monstrosity of mankind without breaking and fluttering away to wherever she came from. She looked as if she would break and yield under too strong a pressure, too awful a sorrow, too desperate a cry; she seemed as if she would soon wither away and disappear.

 _“She’s not part of us,”_  Harry had once said, after a long night of drinks and games, when their spirits were too dull to think reasonably and the filter between their minds and their mouths was practically non-existent, but their brains were not intoxicated enough to permit them to fall asleep.  _“She is not one of us, Dorian, my dear boy.”_

 _“I know,”_  he had slurred.  _“She is an actress, and she is poor.”_

 _“Oh, no,”_  Lord Wotton had replied, his eyelids half closed; from too much wine perhaps, or acting as a shield from the smoke that rose from his cigarette.  _“I mean this world. This Earth. She is not one of us.”_

It had struck him. And it was true, indeed.

She looked like an angel sent down from Heaven to bless the Earth and its creatures – Dorian could have easily accredited this, for she was exquisitely beautiful and gracious – and the faint light showered on her, leaving the rest of the room in shadowy, blurry forms, the faint light seemed to indicate that  _she_  was it; the holy and absolving angel of salvation. Dorian could have easily believed this – if only, if  _only_  he still had had any belief in angels and demons and Heavenly things.

Dorian observed her, erect against the setting sun and watching something, probably a hummingbird, from the window, her locks brushed by a delicate, warm breeze that came from the garden out there – heavy with the too-sweet scent of the flowers and blossoms.

It had been quite a fine summer day, dull and melancholic, and Sybil had seemed to be drinking in the warmth of it, glowing under the ray like a precious jewel, a magnificent amber.

And, suddenly, the answer to his eternal question came to his mind, violent like the angry wave of a sea in tempest, making him shudder in horror under the selfishness, the injustice of it: she truly was not part of this world, she truly did not belong with them,  _to_  them.

Sybil Vane was not  _Sybil Vane_ : she was nothing but the soul, the embodiment of every role she had ever taken: she collected the flaws and qualities, the lives and hopes and dreams of persons who had never existed in this world, and for this, she herself would never exist as simply  _herself_.

And, just like her characters, she was destined to be always fleeting and mysterious, possessing and mesmerising, and she would never be Sybil Vane as a person, but only as a name.


End file.
